Bits and Pieces
by peregrinepandora
Summary: One shot. In the future, Harry looks back on the past, particularly the pieces he left on Privet Drive.


Bits and Pieces

* * *

Dust had collected on the shelves; this came as no surprise to Harry. The cupboard door had been good as locked, and he'd had to jam his shoulder into it to gain access. At his near-adult height—he was still holding out for a few more inches, if only to show up Ron—the little closet was cramped. Not unlike the secret Hogwarts tunnels, he reminded himself with a short laugh.

The light on the end of his wand diffused to illuminate the room. Nothing had been touched; the bed—really, the blanket over a cot—was unmade, and the armies of Dudley's broken toys he had rescued from the dustbin were still arranged in their fastidious order on the flimsy wooden shelf. He toyed with the coarse blanket between his fingers—it reminded him of gabardine—and thought of the thick layers of covers on his four-poster at Hogwarts. Punching the heavy down pillow—the one that had made him sneeze—he could nearly feel the soft, almost weightless clouds he slept on at school. On the floor, there was a cardboard puzzle with one piece missing.

He could not remember the order, the reason behind the meticulous assembly of his wounded playthings. A regiment of plastic men, all missing arms or legs or suffering some comparable malady, stared back at him from the shelf. He couldn't recall why he had left the puzzle, but appreciated the metaphor in its never being finished. He wondered how he could have forgotten them in moving upstairs, but remembered his new schoolbooks, new broomstick, new owl, and new responsibilities.

When Dumbledore had led him to the Dursleys' front step, Harry, knowing better than to ask why, could only step in under the number 4 when the old man thrust the door open ahead of them. It had been nearly two years since he'd seen it, and yet Harry knew every inch of the place, and every inch of his little world, still immured in a cupboard under the stairs.

He gingerly lifted a chess piece, the black king, from its place on the shelf. Blowing the dust off it, his fingers brushed over its smooth, polished surface.

There had been a moment, only one, and a fleeting one at that, in which he had wished, pleaded really, to be back there, curled in the dark, dirty cupboard under the stairs. Air was cold and biting on the outside, and while he had to admit that his cupboard had never been climate controlled, familiarity had lit a little fire in the corner. Curses and sparks were flying and in his mind, he had traveled back under the stairs.

Someone had shouted "Avada Kedavra!" and someone had fallen, but neither was Harry. He set the king down among the soldiers.

When he turned around again, Dudley—now very adult looking, no longer pudgy and pig-nosed—filled the space between the doorjamb and the wall.

"You should take that with you," Dudley said, waving his hand into the cupboard.

Harry pocketed a pair of soldiers, suddenly conscious of his black robes. "How's school?"

"Oh, I've finished," said Dudley, grinning clumsily. "I suppose I'd better not ask you."

Harry awkwardly shuffled his feet, looking up into the face of his childhood tormentor. For an instant, he heard thick-soled boots stomping above him, and saw the beady eyes of his cousin peering in at him through the slit in the door. Two boys, one stocky and the other painfully thin, recklessly chased each other through the house, and through the mild winters and balmy summers of Little Whinging.

"Is that all you want?" Dudley asked suddenly.

Harry inelegantly reached for a handful of toys, stuffing them into his robes. "Yeah," he said, stepping out of the cupboard.

Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, Harry watched Dudley slink into the much-too-small closet. Dudley gently smoothed the covers on the cot and turned out the light. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned the black king on its side and grabbed the last soldier.

The two boys' eyes met again, and Dudley held out his hand for Harry to see before pushing the toy into his breast pocket. He turned his back and locked the cupboard door; when he turned around again, he was smiling.

"All right, Harry?"

Harry's lips turned up as well. "All right."

Dudley took his arm, walking him to the door. "Mum and Dad wouldn't mind if you came by."

Harry nodded, and Dudley pulled open the door in front of them.

"Oh," he added, digging in his trouser pocket, "I've got this for you." He pressed an old puzzle piece into Harry's hand.

"Thanks, Dudley."

The other boy nodded, and waved feebly as the door closed.

"Are you finished, Harry?" a strong old voice came from behind him.

Eyes resting briefly on the flowerboxes and the perfectly preened grass, the painted eaves and shutters, the number four, Harry turned around.

"Let's go."

* * *

Author's Note: Woah, longer than usual, huh? It's nice to think that Dudley might understand one day what Harry really is. Comments are greatly appreciated.


End file.
